


Old Arnold

by VenomQuill



Category: Original Work
Genre: Gen, Holy God since when did my life not revolve around fandoms? :O, Implied gore in some parts, original - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-25
Updated: 2017-10-25
Packaged: 2019-01-23 00:30:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12494352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VenomQuill/pseuds/VenomQuill
Summary: Old Arnold is an honorary staff member of the local animal shelter.





	Old Arnold

**Author's Note:**

> See it on dA: http://fav.me/dblf1oa

The shelter had a cat named Old Arnold.

Old Arnold was a grizzled, mean old cat. Weathered and torn from years on the streets, he was an unwanted pet. His fur, once lavishly decorated by marble swirls of chocolate and cream, was wiry and frizzled. His eyes, once a sprouting dandelion, now hard and dull as the stained glass of an abandoned supermarket. His ears, sharp and tufted, had been sliced through. One was completely gone while the other was nicked. His old claws were jagged. Most of all, his temperament matched his old body.

That old cat hated the world and everything in it. He hated children and pets and old people and young people. He hated certain kitty litter and hated collars and hated most medications. The one thing he loved was food and it didn’t matter what it was. If it satisfied his hunger, he’d eat it. Woe be to anyone who approached him while eating and woe be to any who didn’t put his food down on time. He ate at 7:30 sharp every morning and 6:30 every evening. If his food dish wasn’t full and on the ground by either thirty, old Arnold would make sure everyone knew it. He had an old voice that could shatter glass and old claws that could bite through clothes and skin and an old temper that could scare away the demons from hell. It was a joke amongst the shelter that the Egyptian legends of cats guarding the after life was created by a cat like him.

Old Arnold didn’t tolerate dogs or cats. Cats and dogs alike knew that if that old bundle of fur was in the room, they weren’t. Staff knew that if Old Arnold showed his weary face, they better have a darn good reason to stay. If the staff didn’t, that old cat would make sure they knew the error of their ways.

In the dark nights, while most slept, Arnold kept patrol. He was not the king. He was not the president. He was the lord of their little shelter and all knew it. If a person not allowed in there dare pass the threshold, they had the fury of the unholy on them in seconds. Arnold might not be able to hear a scolding from two feet away, but he could hear the light footsteps of an intruder from across the building.

Old Arnold was just as much a staff member as any who worked there. He’d lived there longer than some worked and he was older than many volunteers. It became a joke amongst them that when their day was interrupted by the shriek of a cat being stabbed to death, they’d turn to each other and say: “Someone forgot about Old Arnold.” No one forgets Old Arnold. If they do, they quickly realize their mistake.

Old Arnold might have hate the world and everything in it, but there was one thing that old cat wouldn’t give a seething glare. Little Arnold, they called him. A boy who’d taken that worm-filled, flea-ridden, dying cat from under a car and presented it to the shelter. His father had discarded the thing upon seeing it and his mother showed revolution. But Little Arnold showed only sympathy. When the vet bills got high, Little Arnold replaced his free time playing video games to mow lawns and pet-sit and fetch the mail. Nothing he earned would put a dent in the bills anyone in their right mind would discard in favor of the cremation bill. But their parents weren’t in their right mind, at least not to everyone else. When Little Arnold put everything down to save that dying cat, including his allowance that he usually spent on a chocolate bar at the old gas station down the street or a toy he’d quickly lose, his parents chipped in.

Little Arnold spent every day when he wasn’t at school or work visiting the roughed up death bait he called Angel. When that bundle of ripped up fur would open his eyes to see Little Arnold, he’d make a sound angels dreamed of having. His love poured into his voice and resonated from his soul and every vet who claimed they couldn’t save him would stare at the mangled cat as if they could hear God’s own voice. When the boy left, Angel would give the Devil a place to speak if any other dare got near.

When it came time for Angel to go home, the vets and the volunteers and the staff all gave their best of wishes to Little Arnold. But when it came time for the family to pick up their new family pet, Little Arnold was not with them. A car had put Little Arnold in the care of doctors in a place called “ICU”. Little Arnold’s parents snuck the ball of hate into the hospital with the hope that spirit could challenge the doctors. When Angel was set on Little Arnold’s bed, all the hate in the world vanished. He slept on the boy’s frail chest. For a moment, the whole world went silent. The cat fell still and slept in the deepest of peace. When Little Arnold was Little Arnold no more, Angel was taken back to the shelter, where he returned to his hate. Any person willing to look past the cat’s warped appearance was set in their place by the rabid hissing. Angel wouldn’t let anyone but Little Arnold close.

In honor the boy’s work and dedication, the staff called the ball of hate Arnold. He’d been sentenced to death row, but the vets wouldn’t have it. Arnold was an honorary staff member. Now Old Arnold is a senior member. Old Arnold has seen animals come and go one way or the other. Sometimes Little Arnold’s parents would come and visit, but such visits were less and less frequent.

Now, of everything Arnold was, he was a fighter. Through the jokes and the laughter and the surprise Old Arnold gave them, there was an unspoken phrase among them. An unspoken thought fell over them all, even Old Arnold. He didn’t gain his nickname from his awful temper, after all. It was a rule that this phrase be left wordless. If you believed hard enough, maybe the phrase wouldn’t come true. But one day, this unspoken phrase was given words. The very same vet who’d taken Arnold into surgery to repair his frail, tiny body, was the very same vet to look over his aging body and the very same vet to speak those cursed words.

As soon as the phrase was uttered, the air grew heavy. The same nurse who dribbled bits of liquid cat food into Arnold’s mouth as a mangled, starving wreck was the same to offer medicine to ease his aching bones. The same nurse who combed the insistent fleas out of his patchy pelt was the same to make sure his spot in the sun was comfy and warm as ever. The same nurse who gave him his title of “honorary staff member” was the very same to write his name with trembling hands one last time. The very same nurse who’d offered the cremation paperwork for the mangled, wormy, flea-ridden wreck was the very same to tuck it away in a place where none of the other nurses would have to see it. The same volunteer who’d given Arnold his sleeping shot for his very first surgery was the same nurse to give him his very last sleeping shot.

The shelter did not have a cat named Old Arnold.

**Author's Note:**

> Holy crap, what is this? Something NOT fandom related? Hell, something not Gravity Falls related? I'll have you know that I wrote mainly original works up until a little over a year ago, when I wrote "Fallen Under". So, nyeh. I just never posted them here. In fact, I rarely post them on the internet at all. "Old Arnold" and "I'm Feeling Really Attacked Right Now" are the only original works I posted on the internet. I might put up "Ms. Bird and Mr. Snake" (a children's short story I made for my graphic design class) but that's unlikely. .3. Unless anyone wants to read the darn thing.
> 
> I just got this stuck in my head a few weeks ago so I wrote it and posted it to dA. I think it was self-inspired by a picture I drew at Subway... hmm, can't remember. I just didn't post it here because... not a fan work?


End file.
